


Processional

by Brighid45



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House finds inspiration in an unexpected meeting. One-shot set somewhere in S1, though not a specific time or story arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Processional

**Author's Note:**

> This story's inspiration was a chance encounter with a recording of Widor's 'Toccata'. While listening, I saw House seated next to the organ, taking in the music with his faint, crooked smile. Had to write about it. The chapel and the diner do exist; Emerson is a figment of my imagination, based on many organists I've worked with over the years. House and the canon characters belong to David Shore, Fox and NBC/Universal; I make no money from writing about them.

“House, we can’t do it. There’s no way the patient’s parents will allow this procedure. You know it, we know it, the whole damn hospital knows it. We need to try something else.” Chase sat back and folded his arms. “It’s that simple.”

“It _isn’t_ that simple, you idiot!” House glared at Chase. “Principal Cuddy’s got you scared to death of black marks on your permanent record. You’re fucking useless to me if you can’t handle a procedure that might earn you a week’s detention.” He got to his feet with difficulty and bit the inside of his cheek at a stab of pain from his ruined thigh, and then almost as an afterthought, his right shoulder and elbow.

“You’re hurting,” Cameron said with some hesitation. “The--the weather’s changed—“

“No shit!” House snapped. “I’m in pain every day, brilliant deduction!” He pushed away from the table and leaned hard on his cane, felt his leg tremble. “Fine. I’ll talk to the parents. Maybe they’ll see what you can’t.”

“Don’t bother.” Cuddy stood in the doorway, papers in hand. “I tried, but they won’t give permission for any more tests.” She sounded both annoyed and resigned. “They’ve threatened to take their daughter to another hospital if we attempt anything they haven’t authorized. I’m sorry, House.”

House stared at her. “The _fuck_ you are,” he said after a moment’s tense silence. “Screw it. I’m off this case.”

Cuddy’s eyes widened. “You _can’t_ —“

“Yeah I can.” He grabbed his backpack and limped toward her. She didn’t move. He stopped just before he bumped into her; he could smell her shampoo, a faint whiff of sandalwood and musk. “I’m taking a personal day. Get out of my way or I’ll make it a permanent exit.” Pain pulsed through his leg in time with his heartbeat. Cuddy gave him a quick assessment, a top-to-bottom look. Without another word she stepped aside. House brushed past her and moved into the hallway.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Cameron called after him. House ignored her and went to the elevator bank. He punched the ‘down’ button with the end of his cane, and kept the stairs out of his field of vision.

The day beyond the lobby was overcast, with a mean-spirited, icy wind to chill exposed flesh. House bowed his head and made his way to the parking lot. As people passed by, he felt their glances brush over him: indifferent, curious, pitying. He hunched his shoulders and kept his gaze on the sidewalk. Brown leaves littered the concrete, and more blew in from the trees across the street. Soon the branches would be bare, and snow would fall in place of the leaves. House shivered and regretted it as his leg sent a warning spasm. At least he was only a few steps away from his ride.

The Dynasty didn’t want to start up or move any more than he did. With a muttered curse House coaxed the old car into gear, out of the lot and into traffic. It was a weekday morning, which meant plenty of congestion and students everywhere. As he sat at a stoplight, he considered his options. He could go home and soak in the bathtub or keep moist heat on his thigh all day, but that was a temporary solution at best, even with generous doses of Vicodin and alcohol. Besides, he was already tired of time spent in his apartment; winter would be here soon enough, with attendant cabin fever and boredom. It was close to nine thirty now, so perhaps he could find someplace to get a second breakfast. He’d come into work on time for once to make sure the test their patient needed was actually run. So much for _that_ idea, at least until he could figure out a way around the parents.

He ended up at a pancake house across from the university library. It wasn’t his usual choice of venue, but Triumph Brewing wouldn’t be open for another hour and a half, and he didn’t feel like a long wait for an over-priced sandwich and beer just so he could take his meds. The student crowds had mostly cleared out of the restaurant anyway, with only a few people on phones or laptops scattered around the dining area. A server came up to him. “Morning,” she said, and slapped a menu on the counter. “Coffee?”

House ordered a red eye and gave the listings a disinterested glance before he turned his thoughts to the matter at hand.   _Maybe it’s time to leave._ It wasn’t a new idea, and not exactly an unwelcome one. He’d been hired by Cuddy not long after the blood clot and subsequent surgery had damaged him beyond repair. Now several years later, he felt as if he hadn’t moved forward in time with the rest of humanity. He’d stayed at PPTH longer than any other job, mainly due to Cuddy’s influence. She ran interference for him with the board and made it clear Diagnostics was her pet project, all of which neatly side-stepped the fact that without him, the department would have never have been created. Nor would the hospital have gained the world-wide reputation it now owned; patients came from nearly every corner of the planet, in the hope he and his team would take their case. Diagnostics was the main reason why Princeton-Plainsboro was a teaching institution of note, no mean feat by anyone’s standards.

The server returned with his coffee. “Anything else?”

House picked up the spoon. “Yeah. Get me a clean one of these,” he said, and handed it to the young woman. She rolled her eyes, took the spoon and ambled into the kitchen. He pulled the menu over and studied it again, as unimpressed this time as at first glance.

“Try the banana-pecan pancakes,” someone said. “They’re always good. Everything else is up for grabs.”

The owner of the voice was an older guy. _My age_ , House thought with a touch of bitter amusement. The man sat a few feet away at a table for four, with a half-eaten plate of pancakes, a fresh cup of coffee, and a stack of books. Music books, House saw, well-used and yet cared for. One was open, with a pencil tucked neatly in the divide of the pages. He felt a niggle of interest. “You’re taking the long way around to get a hot date,” he said. The man smiled.

“Don’t tell my wife, she’ll shoot me. I’m on my way to practice in . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty-five minutes, give or take.”

House looked at the music again. After a moment the answer came to him. “You’re the head organist at the main campus chapel. Jonah Emerson. Ph.D, if I recall.”

The man nodded and looked a bit surprised. “Yes.” He tilted his head a bit. “You’re Doctor House.”

“You know me. That’s . . . unexpected.”

“You’re wearing your work ID.”

House looked down to see his badge clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket. “Huh.” He removed it and stuffed it into his pocket.

“How’d you know my name?” Emerson stirred his coffee and took a sip.

“Logic. Organ music and your current proximity to the campus chapel implies you work at the local Church-A-Rama. Your music has notations for edits during service. And if you were an assistant, you’d still be playing for morning devotional.” House glanced at the server as she came through the swing doors to stand in front of him. She placed a spoon next to his cup. “You must have made that one yourself, from the amount of time it took you to bring it out here,” he said. The young woman just looked at him.

“I hope you’re ready to order,” she said. House flicked the menu with his finger.

“Banana-pecan pancakes, and don’t be stingy with the syrup, baby,” he said. “Hash browns, bacon, no muffin.”

“Okay, honey,” the server said dryly. She gathered up the menu and left. House lifted his cup and took a cautious taste. Not great, not bad; he could live with it. He looked over at Emerson.

“You said practice,” he said. “There’s an international competition in Paris in December. You’ve been chosen to participate.”

Emerson smiled a little. “You know about organs.”

“I know a lot about organs,” House said. “Sort of a job requirement.” That earned him a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t mind talking to a fellow musician. Have a seat,” Emerson said, and moved the folders to an empty chair. House hesitated. After a moment he got to his feet, picked up his cup, and came over to the table. He eased into a chair opposite the other man. Emerson didn’t offer his hand. Instead he selected a book from the pile on the chair and placed it in front of House. “Tell me what you think. The movement is marked.”

House accepted the book. “Assignment or choice?”

“Choice.”

He paged through to the movement indicated, gave it a quick read-through. “Ambitious.”

“No guts, no glory.” Emerson took another sip of coffee. “The committee thinks it’s too much. They want something safer, more conventional. But everyone else will be playing the usual competition pieces. This . . .” He tapped the page with a finger. “This is still in the category, but it’s not used much. It’ll stand out.”

“You’d better have the technique to make it stand out in the right way,” House said. “There’s a yawning chasm between confidence and arrogance.”

“Yeah.” Emerson sat back as the server came to the table with tray in hand. She looked down at the music book in front of House. After a moment she put the plates around the book and left without comment. Emerson chuckled.

“You’re definitely a musician.” He watched as House set the book aside, moved the plate to the central position and drowned his pancakes with syrup. “You know, I could use an impartial listener. If you have time, why not come over with me and sit in?”

House ate an enormous bite, chewed and swallowed, stabbed another huge chunk of pancakes with his fork. “You think if you pay for breakfast I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”

Emerson gave him a slight smile. “I’ll pay for breakfast and you can tell me to go to hell, if it’s the truth.”

Half an hour later they crossed Nassau Street and entered the university library. “It’s the best way in cold weather,” Emerson said. House glanced at him sharply. There was no pity in the other man’s expression; he’d just stated a preference, nothing more. He relaxed a bit just as his phone went off. ‘Dancing Queen’—so Cuddy’s enforcer had decided to check in. House let the call go to voicemail. No doubt Wilson would attempt to guilt-trip him into a return to the hospital, or at least attempt to extract an explanation of the events prior to his decampment.

They reached the other side of the library and emerged into the close. The chapel loomed against the overcast sky, a mass of grey stone and black roof tiles with a stern, dignified profile. House turned his gaze away from it and followed Emerson into the entrance, past faculty and students. A fair number of people exited the building; attendance was up a bit. Not much of a surprise, with a tough economy and dodgy world politics. Superstitions always did brisk trade when people were uncertain of their future . . . Music moved into the cold air along with the attendants. House listened as he and Emerson entered the foyer. “Luebeck,” he said aloud. “Not bad.”

“That’s my assistant, Ben Moyer,” Emerson said. “He’s got a gig for a wedding here this weekend, so this is his chance to practice the recessional.”

House nodded. They moved from the foyer into the chapel proper. It was empty now, but the large space held a goodly amount of color and light, bright against the stone interior. And music too; solemn and charming by turns, it brought another kind of warmth with it. House felt that tug at his heart he both loved and dreaded.

“It’s pretty live when it’s empty, but I kinda like it,” Emerson said. “Makes everything sound majestic, even when you’re playing ‘Chopsticks’.” He walked up the side aisle on the organ side, and House followed him. As they reached the nave the music ended, but only for a moment. A grand, sinister theme sounded through the quiet. After a moment House glanced at Emerson, brows raised.

“Hey, it’s good music,” Emerson said with a grin. “You haven’t lived until you’ve played the Imperial March from _Star Wars_ on a six-rank organ with a one-twenty-eight stop. The _Superman_ main theme is even better.”

House couldn’t help a reluctant chuckle. They climbed the steps to the organ nook, where a young man held forth. He gave them a quick glance and a smile; he was in his early twenties, with a shock of red hair and a thin, clever face. His hands moved over the ranks with an assurance House envied. “Church organists don’t play secular music at work,” he said.

“This one does,” Emerson said. “I grew up in south Philly. Mom took me to Wanamakers to hear the organ concerts. I knew at five I wanted be the one on the bench. This position is the next best thing.”

Ben ended on a long low note and turned to face them. “Morning,” he said. “Good crowd today. I’ll set the stops for you.”

“Thanks,” Emerson said. He glanced at House. “Have a seat,” he said, and indicated the bench.

“Uh . . . not a good idea.” The Vicodin he’d taken at breakfast had begun to kick in, but the walk had exacerbated pain levels. Emerson nodded.

“There’s an easy chair on your right,” he said, and took the bench as House found the chair and lowered into it with a silent sigh of relief. It was a bit rump-sprung, but he wasn’t about to complain. He watched Ben confer with Emerson before he turned to the stops on the left. Emerson stacked books on the rack, removed his coat and set it on the bench beside him, reached out and opened the first book. He stretched his fingers, checked the ranks, placed his hands on the keys, played a few simple scales.

“Okay,” Ben said after a brief conversation on settings. “Everything’s ready to go, your settings for both competition pieces are in the computer. See you later this evening.” He nodded at House and left as Emerson began to play a hymn. House was struck by how at home the other man looked there. Emerson was of average height and appearance, a middle-aged man in slacks, shirt and cardigan, with a bit of a belly, bald spot and glasses; typical specimen, to be honest. And yet as he played, it became clear he was in his element. What he might lack in spectacular talent, he made up for with an intuitive touch that brought the music to life.

Once the hymn was finished, Emerson opened the book with the competition piece he’d chosen: Widor’s ‘Toccata’, from his great Fifth Symphony. House settled in as the organist stretched his fingers, checked the stops, moved his feet, paused. He placed his hands on the keys; there was a moment of silence, and then the music burst forth. House closed his eyes and listened. It was a good start, with no perceptible settling into the pace--exactly right from the beginning, and not too fast either. Most organists liked to show off with Widor. Emerson was wise enough to avoid that trap. The music shone in all its glory, light, trilling drifts of high notes given even more brilliance by the deep, sonorous bedrock of low counterpoint. Any slower and the progression would be labored and too dignified, but instead it was lively, sensitive. The music surrounded House: glorious, celebratory, sparkling, like beams of sunshine in the quiet peace of the old chapel. A peculiar warmth filled his heart, that odd sense of joy he knew only when music touched a secret place deep within. In this moment he could almost believe in the sacred space people talked about, a place where the numinous became tangible, real.

The music fell silent at last. With reluctance House opened his eyes. Emerson sat at the organ, his head bowed slightly. After a moment he withdrew his hands. It was an act of both reverence and respect. Neither man moved for some moments. When Emerson glanced at him, House spoke before he could ask the question.

“Do it.”

Emerson nodded. “Okay. Thanks. You’re a good audience.”

House raised a brow. There was a question in that statement. “You need someone to listen.”

“Yeah, it would help.”

House hesitated, then gave a single nod. “’kay.”

Emerson nodded in turn. “I’m here most days in the morning about this time, so whenever you have a chance, come on over.” He smiled. “Breakfast’s on me too, if you like.”

“Even better.” With reluctance House levered himself out of the chair. “See you around, Doctor Emerson.”

“Same to you, Doctor House.”

He’d just started down the main aisle when the opening strains of ‘Tea For Two’ filled the chapel. House couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. He paused at the door, turned toward the organ nook, sketched a salute, and did his poor best to dance out into the foyer, and the cold grey day beyond.

The music stayed with him all the way back to the hospital, where he found Wilson on ambush duty in the lobby. He looked House up and down, his dark eyes narrowed. “You’ve got syrup on your shirt. Where the _hell_ have you been?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” House said, and hummed ‘Tea For Two’ all the way to the elevator bank. Wilson followed him.

“Your patient’s family is about to leave and you take off, don’t answer your phone—“

“Not your concern. You have your own chores, and I don’t mean Cuddy’s scutwork.” House made a shooing motion. “Off you trundle, little lackey.” He didn’t bother to wait for Wilson’s reaction as he entered the elevator and punched the button.

The patient’s parents were indeed making preparations to leave when House arrived at the room. He came in and gave the unconscious patient a quick lookover; no change there. Annoyed, he leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms as he rested his weight on his good leg. “We need to do the procedure,” he said. “If you weren’t idiots, we’d have results by now and your kid would be that much closer to a diagnosis.”

The woman—presumably the mother—glared at him. “You must be Doctor House,” she said.

“Possibly,” House said. “Get the damn test done.”

“Why should we?” The man spoke now, with a fair amount of hostility. House ignored him. The woman was the softer target, he knew it from years of experience. Dads were generally a much harder sell. Occasionally he got a tiger mom who resisted his blandishments, but that was a rarity. “You can’t just show up now, after Susan’s been here for two weeks without any sign of you in all that time, and—and _order_ us to do another test!”

“Well, yeah I can,” House said, and kept his tone one of reason. “See, I’m the doctor and you’re the clueless parental units. I do the doctoring, you do what you’re told. Everyone’s happy.”

“Except that hasn’t worked,” the father snapped.

“Diagnosis isn’t like reading a cookbook. We have to find out what isn’t wrong, so we can get at the real problem.” House sighed. “I could have sworn one of my minions explained this to you when you got here.”

“Well, we’re leaving now.” The father grabbed his coat and turned to the woman. “I’ll get Susan released. Be ready to go when I get back.” He pushed past House without another word. The mother watched him leave, then glanced at the patient.

“Your people all said every test was the one that would find out what the problem is,” she said. Her voice held equal parts resentment and confusion. “But none of them did.”

“This one will.” House crossed his fingers as he said it. The woman sent him a sharp look.

“I know she doesn’t mean anything to you, but she’s my only child. If I lose her, I’ll just have him, and he’s not enough. Not without her.”

 She’d probably regret that moment of honesty, but she deserved a reward for it anyway. “Get it done,” House said. It was all he could offer.

“Okay,” the woman said after a brief silence. She sighed. “I’ll deal with Frank. We’ll stay.”

House’s last glimpse of her was at the nurse’s station, where she spoke with her husband. He shook his head; she put her hand on his arm. House turned away and went back to the elevators.

Chase and Foreman were in the conference room when he entered. Both of them perused file folders taken from a stack in the middle of the table. “Where the hell have you been?” Foreman demanded, and tossed a folder aside.

“Succeeding where you failed, drama queen,” House said. “Time’s a-wastin’. Get the procedure done.”

“We don’t have permission,” Chase said.

“ _Au contraire_ , blond one.” House leaned on his cane. “Mom and Dad are fighting about it now, but Mom’s gonna win. Probably. Do the test while they’re distracted.”

Foreman shook his head. “And get sued?”

“What’s life without a little excitement?” House held the door open. “Earn your keep, underlings.”

He waited until they’d left before he limped into his office and lowered into his recliner. Slowly he relaxed, brought his bad leg up, then the good one. He set his cane within reach and folded his hands over his middle, closed his eyes. It took some time, but the pain finally receded a bit and allowed music to fill his mind, clear and bright. He drifted off into its soothing embrace, comforted by the knowledge of the morning’s unexpected glories, and more to come.


End file.
